


Bonus Epilogue: The New Pride of Portree

by startwearingpurple



Series: Rose Weasley: Bounty Hunter [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Next Gen Weasleys - Freeform, Next Next Gen Weasleys, being extra, self indulgent epilogues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:32:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwearingpurple/pseuds/startwearingpurple
Summary: This is an extremely self-indulgent post-epilogue I wrote for myself after finishing The New Pride of Portree. It's Molly/Fitz fluff, featuring Teddy Lupin and several mini-Lupins.





	Bonus Epilogue: The New Pride of Portree

The “Extra” Extra Epilogue

 

“Don't throw it that way!” Fitz was seething, in his usual impending-coronary sort of way. “What the arsing hell- wrong goal, wrong goal!”

Molly drew a deep breath, counted to ten silently, and then walked over to her husband. “Riordan.”

He seemed immediately repentant, which told her he knew he'd gone too far. “I'm sorry. I'm an arse.”

“They're going to come kill you if you keep this up.”

He glanced over at the opposing side, who were indeed staring daggers at him. “I'll shut up, I swear.”

“I will make you write another letter of apology to the lot of them.”

He pulled a face. “Jesus Christ, Molly.”

She was relentless. “This is why I'm coaching instead of you. You won't be allowed to come to games any more if you can't get a grip. It's not good for your blood pressure.”

“I just want us to win.”

“It doesn't matter if we win, so long as we're all having fun,” she reminded him.

He gave her a look. “That's no way to play Quidditch.”

“Stop being an arsehole.” She walked back toward the field, and their team's Seeker flew over, landing beside her and looking up at her with a worried expression.

“Is Uncle Fitz cross with me?” Arthur Lupin asked in a small voice.

Molly knelt down beside her godson and tousled his red hair. “Of course not. He's angry at the other team because he wants you to win,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, beeping his nose with her fingertip on the word you, and Arthur began to smile.

One of the Chasers landed his own broom next to them. “Don't worry, Artie, Dad just gets really into the game,” Callum assured his cousin. He was seven months younger than Arthur, neither one of them quite six years old yet, but Callum was far more confident than his cousin. Arthur often required a great deal of reassuring, but Callum never did. Molly wasn't sure which parent he'd inherited his cockiness from. Possibly both.

“All right, both of you, back to the game,” she said, shooing them off.

“Yes, Mummy.” Callum smiled cheekily as he flew off.

Molly nodded to the other team's coach, and the Quidditch Tots match resumed, though in all honesty it was hard to tell the difference between a stopped match and a continuing match. The five-to-seven year old Tots League was always chaotic, rarely scoring and occasionally falling off their brooms. The game paused regularly because a player had flown off the field to ask his parent for a snack, or to pick flowers and present them to a teammate. They threw the Quaffle into the wrong hoops so often that the coaches had all agreed to count all goals, whether or not they were scored on the correct side. It was like herding Kneazles. At first the other parents had been happy to have a professional Quidditch coach in the Tots League, but that hadn't lasted long. It had made Fitz insane trying to coach them, and Molly had put her foot down and banned him from it before he was killed either by a rage-induced stroke or by an angry parent.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Fitz still holding two year old Graham, who was sound asleep on his father's shoulder, drooling onto his Pride of Portree t-shirt. Graham could sleep anywhere at any time, much like his godfather, Evander Jinks. Having his father shouting right next to his ear had not fazed him.

Fitz shifted the baby to his other shoulder, obviously doing his best not to start shouting again at all the children as they flew haphazardly around the small pitch, at least half of them going the wrong way. He was going red with the effort not to swear, his lips contorting.

Teddy Lupin, whose wife had likewise banned him from coaching the kids' games to prevent the other parents from trying to murder him, was standing next to Fitz with a look of annoyance on his face and the youngest three Lupin girls sitting at his feet. Eight year old Fleur Lupin was teaching her younger sisters and Molly's four year old son Angus to make daisy chains. The girls were doing quite well, but Angus was mostly shredding the flowers, quite deliberately and without shame. He was not a gentle child (“Future Beater,” his father often remarked). Teddy was already wearing a crown of flowers, draped crookedly around his temples. As Molly watched, Fleur tugged on Fitz's trouser leg to get his attention, and he crouched down to allow her to crown him with a daisy chain as well.

Pressing her lips together to keep from laughing at her husband in his floral tiara, Molly turned her full attention back to the game in time to see her son score the first goal of the game – in the wrong hoops. Laughing with delight, she clapped loudly as Callum flew past, both of his skinny little arms in the air as he cheered for his own goal.

“Hands on the broom!” she reminded him, but it was too late. He was congratulating himself so much that he fell off his broom, landing flat on his back.

Shaking her head, Molly watched her son dust himself off (the brooms only went about three feet off the ground) and chase after his broom. Behind her, she could hear her husband choking on swearwords.

“Godda- son of a-” He swallowed the rest of it and managed to call out, “Good goal, son!”

“Merlin's beard,” muttered Teddy. “I can't stand it.”

“I need a drink,” Fitz agreed.

Molly grinned and went to help Callum recapture his broom.

(end)


End file.
